


Who You Are

by screamer



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Domestic Violence, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Stripper Jared, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamer/pseuds/screamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for chomaisky's gorgeous art prompt in the 2014 Reverse Bang. "There's something about Jared that only Jensen sees and cherishes."</p><p>Jensen's a bouncer who never stays in one city long. Jared's a stripper with an attitude. They both have secrets.</p><div class="center">
  <p> <a href="http://chomaisky.livejournal.com/40631.html">Art Masterpost</a><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jensen’s been in the city for nine days, but he doesn’t start looking for a job till he’s down to forty-six dollars in small bills and change. Most importantly, it means he’s in danger of getting thrown out of the shady motel he’s living in, losing the bed he’s been lying on, and TV that offers 24/7 mind-numbing content.

When Jensen entered the workforce, he quickly learned there are certain jobs he can stand longer than others. Night clerk at a hotel; lawn maintenance; anything where he can tell people “no”. His first job in security is for a contracting agency. For three months of summer Jensen works at concerts and fairs. In those three months Jensen is puked on four times, breaks up two alcohol-induced brawls, and witnesses a concert crowd rush a line, putting two teenage girls in the hospital. He leaves the job disgusted, a little frightened. He doesn’t work for two months. 

It’s the path of least resistance that leads him to Kansas City, lands him a job bouncing at a strip club. He’s certified as a security guard, he’s got a clean background, he stays in shape, and he’s got a pretty face. After that, there’s a gay bar in Portland. Then, a night club in Albuquerque. That job, though, Jensen’s pretty sure he gets because one of the managers wants to sleep with him. It’s not the first time a potential boss wanted in his pants, but this time the boss is thirty-one, has a past in professional cheerleading, and the first time they fuck she asks Jensen how he feels about spanking. They fuck for nine months, till Sarah meets a nice guy she wants to make her boyfriend. She can do better than Jensen, a guy with no future and a compromised short-term memory. 

There are no hard feelings. For Jensen, it’s the ideal situation. He’s never fucked someone for favors or money; sex strictly for the sake of sex. But Jensen’s twenty-five, healthy, six years clean—he doesn’t even drink anymore; he likes sex, and most of the time, navigating from point A to point B is a virtual minefield. The flirting, the small talk, the buildup required to get someone into bed with him is a formula Jensen strove to learn, but failed to master. There’s no systematic application of the theory, and no matter how many tips Jensen reads on “getting game” he hasn’t got it. What he has is “really creepy”, according to more than one person. He’s also gotten “slightly retarded” and “serial killer Ken doll.”

But if he doesn’t have to talk and charm and convince, if he can find another way of fulfilling the social requirement of establishing himself as normal and safe, Jensen has his pick of hot, young bodies. The Kansas City job only lasts five months, but by the time he leaves Jensen has slept with half a dozen customers and four of the girls who dance there. At the Portland bar, Jensen’s hooking up with hot, horny guys on a bi-weekly basis. It’s another perquisite of the job, incentive to stick with the occupation. 

When Jensen comes to the unavoidable conclusion he needs a job, Sarah’s name and number are first on his list of references. The night club world is like any other network. Who you know, Jensen has learned, is what really gets you the job.

— 

Jensen’s first shift at _Territory_ is a Tuesday night. Head of security is Matt, a big guy with a full, black beard and a bald head. He has Jensen working the main floor with another guy named Will. For eight hours, Jensen will stand on a chair against the wall, shifting to a new part of the room at thirty minute intervals. Matt moves around, checking in with the doorman, the security cams, the VIP check in, and Jensen himself. 

“Go ahead and take twenty,” Matt says, half way through Jensen’s shift. 

“Where can I smoke?” Jensen asks, and Matt gives him a look that’s clearly disapproving. 

“Out back. Use the ashtray.”

Jensen pulls on his coat as he walks down the hall to the back exit. It’s only September, but the five thousand feet elevation doesn’t care.

There’s a guy leaning against the wall a few feet from the exit, messing with his phone. He’s dressed like a teenager, ripped jeans on long, lean legs, headphone set crooked over a knit hat. Without looking up, the kid says,

“What took so long? Did you find a dick that needed sucking?” 

Jensen doesn’t say anything, even though that line was laid at his feet, and the guy looks up. His eyes are clear hazel, fox-like. They meet Jensen’s for a moment, drop somewhere below his neck, then return to the phone screen.

“Thought you were someone else.”

That’s probably another line he should be able to pick up and run with. Instead, Jensen says, “I’m Jensen. New security.”

“Okay,” the guys says without looking up. 

“You work here?”

“No, I just like hanging out in strip club hallways.”

“Alright,” Jensen says, steps past the guy, continuing to the back door. Jensen’s worked with plenty of general assholes, plenty of performers who thought they were Paris fucking Hilton, and like the drunk customers, it’s just part of the job.

Jensen lights up, holds the cigarette between his lips and pulls out a pocket notebook and pencil. Below the drawing of a bushy-bearded head with the scrawl _Matt_ beside it, Jensen draws large eyes, a pointed nose and a frowning mouth framed by long hair. He captions it with a placeholder, _bitchy hipster model_. It’s Jensen’s version of mnemonics, and, he’s found, very helpful for settling in at a new job.

— 

His first week, Jensen gets a Sunday late shift. It’s a game night, which is great for business if the home team wins, not so great if it doesn’t. Tonight they are lucky.

Jensen shows up for his shift ten minutes early, preemptively chewing nicotine gum. The parking lot is packed and there’s a line at the front entrance. There’s a certain energy when everyone’s hyped up on a heavy spending night at a full club. When Jensen passes by the dancer’s green room it sounds like a highschool locker room. 

Jensen’s shift is on the main floor with Cecil, a guy who looks like he stepped straight off a Viking knarr, blond ponytail, tree trunk biceps and all. Jensen’s pretty happy to have a guy like that watching his back, even from the opposite side of the room. Every city, every club is a little different, and Jensen isn’t sure what to expect of tonight’s crowd.

When Jensen first started working clubs, it was easy to get distracted being surrounded by naked bodies. But he’s not there to watch the dancers, he’s there to watch the drunk, horny guys trying to stick their fingers up a cooch or grab a dick. It’s a lot less of a turn on. So Jensen’s not paying a much attention to the stage performance, just aware that there’s a lot of jock straps and stripper-friendly football accessories. 

The DJ announces over the PA system, “I know this is what a lot of you are really here for. Let’s welcome Tommy to the stage. If he’s not one of your favorites yet, he’s about to become one.” 

Jensen’s scanning dark shapes in dark corners and when the stage lights up with blue and white, it takes Jensen a minute to recognize the dancer is BHM. The kid from the hallway. 

He’s tall, really tall. Would be even without the heels, which he is also wearing, electric blue to match the orange and blue cheer skirt and cropped tank. But there’s no way to mistake him for a girl. He has the lean, muscled body of a teenager, all long limbs and smooth skin, but his shoulders look twice the width of his waist and his hips are almost as narrow. The waistband of the skirt rides low enough to show the top curve of his ass, the V of muscle down his groin. 

Then an AWOLNATION remix starts playing, and Jensen almost pops a boner right there. Not because he’s a fan, but because BHM, aka Tommy, has some genuinely impressive body isolation. Jensen’s seen performers who can really dance, and performers who can really strip. One is not the other, but Tommy can do both. 

Jensen watches between quick scans of the rest of the room. He’s looking away when the skirt comes off, and when he looks back, Tommy is standing there in a shiny blue g-string, the thick shape of his penis hanging pretty. Gripping the pole above his head, one leg hooked, he spins down to the floor, coming to rest on his knees, thighs spread. He reaches down and grabs his crotch. His thumb tugs the string of his thong down and he smiles at the crowd, tongue between white teeth. Even though the look isn’t aimed specifically at him, Jensen’s gut lurches.

— 

Jensen starts waking up an hour early to get a run and a few sets of push-ups in before his shift. He’s not the biggest guy out there, staying in shape is smart, even if he gets most of his trouble from drunk customers trying to flirt with him. He wears the standard black t-shirt with SECURITY printed on it, but that only deters about half of all customers, and forty percent of the gay ones. As much as Jensen likes ending the night with a cute guy, he’s not trying to pick anyone up in the middle of a shift.

Except maybe Tommy. He’d probably fuck Tommy in the middle of anything. 

“Tommy?” Will laughed when Jensen asked. “Do not get involved with that, man.”

“Any reason?” Not that Jensen is trying to get involved. 

“He’s a little psycho bitch. Ted lets him get away with a ton of shit because he’s the new club dime piece. About four months ago? He beat up one of his regulars because the guy was following him. Really messed the poor fucker up.”

Jensen thinks that does sound pretty psycho, honestly. “And he didn’t get fired?”

“Didn’t happen here, so the club isn’t liable. Whatever. Welcome to the fucking zoo, man.”

Jensen kind of hates himself, but none of that is exactly discouraging his dick.

— 

Jensen’s doing a sweep of the VIP area during the closing push when one of the dancers approaches him. 

“You’re Jensen, right?” 

Short kid, square chin, nose ring. Jensen’s fairly certain the guy is one of the dancers. Or maybe one of the shot boys? Jensen’s definitely seen him before.

“Right,” he says.

The kid grins. “I’m Mitch. Hey, can you walk me to my car? There’s a guy who’s been fucking with me, I don’t want to meet him alone.”

Jensen’s walked plenty of performers to their cars, or seen them into a taxi. In some of the neighborhoods, no one wanted to walk alone, especially not at three in the morning.

“Let me finish up here.”

“I just gotta grab my stuff from the dressing room. Meet you there?”

Jensen finishes checking the VIP rooms and heads back to the dressing room. A couple of the guys give him brief looks when he walks in, but no one seems to care, busy stripping off, packing up. 

A blond guy with a buzz cut and a two day beard comes in, stops, looks around the room, says loudly, “Jared leave already?” 

“Bathroom,” someone yells back at the same time someone else yells, “Icing his balls!”

“Fuck,” the blond guy says. He looks over, catches Jensen watching. “You need something?”

“Waiting for . . .” Jensen gestures in the direction of the kid he’s going to walk out, because Jensen has already forgotten his name, god dammit. 

Tommy comes in. He’s dressed in jeans and t-shirt. His hair looks rough, damp at the ends. It curls against the clean line of his jaw and Jensen immediately gets the idea of putting his mouth there.

“Ready?” the blond guy asks.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, glances at Jensen. 

Jensen’s staring, knows he is. He’s learned to recognize it most of the time, knows it puts other people on edge, but he isn’t so great at stopping altogether. He looks away, and Mitch is coming toward him.

It’s cold enough outside to see your breath. The neighborhood is as dead as it gets. Jensen walks Mitch to his blue BMW, watches him get in and drive away. 

— 

Pain is waiting as soon as Jensen opens his eyes. Headaches have been a problem since the day he woke in the hospital, eighteen years old and wondering how he was still alive. Cold exacerbates the pain. 

The motel carpet is stiff and waxy under Jensen’s bare feet when he crawls out of bed. He grimaces, shuffles to the bathroom for ibuprofen. He stands under a hot shower till the absolute last minute. When he stops for coffee in the way to the club he orders an extra shot of espresso. 

Maybe it’s the weather, but everyone seems to be having a shitty Tuesday. Ted, one of the club owners, is there. He’s yelling at one of the bartenders when Jensen walks in. Jensen goes to clock in and finds Will looking likes he’s at the end of a twelve hour bender. 

“Fucking Tuesday,” Will says, and leaves. 

Jensen takes two more ibuprofen before he starts his shift.

Alcohol, sweat, stale perfume and generic funk. It’s the standard strip club smell. If Jensen’s unlucky, there’s some vomit smell mixed in there. Tonight he’s unlucky. Jensen’s head aches and his bottom lip stings from a bleeding crack he can’t keep his tongue away from. If he needed more trouble, there’s a group of women holding court at one end of the main stage. Greg, general manager of _Territory_ , doesn’t like women in his club. He says it’s because they are shitty tippers and distract the straight dancers from the paying male customers. Jensen doesn’t really care, but now he has to deal with half a dozen handsy women and the straight dudes who are getting off on the attention. 

“We have absolute enforcement of rules here,” Matt said when he handed Jensen the security personnel booklet. But as Jensen understands it, Ted has an understanding with the police that means a courtesy call before any kind of inspection. The insider secrets are slow in trickling down. Jensen doesn’t doubt there’s a lot more to it.

But Jensen’s just there to get a paycheck. He does his job. 

He has two hours left on his shift when Tommy/Jared shows up. Jensen’s roaming, moving around the main floor, keeping an eye on the booths, on the tables getting dances, the customers buying dancers drinks at the bars. The DJ is reminding the crowd that there’s a bottle service special all week long, and Jensen immediately recognizes Jared by height and hair as one of the silhouettes coming up on the stage. The lights change and Jensen sees the other dancer is the blond buzz cut Jensen has learned goes by the name Rocker, but whose real name is Chad. 

Jared’s wearing jeans that are more hole than denim, Chad has on basketball shorts and they are both wearing backwards baseball caps. They looks like a couple of frat boys, but apparently that does it for women as well as gay men. By the time Jared has his jeans off and Chad’s stepping out of his shorts, the stage is covered in money. 

Everything is fine till near the end of the set when the dancers are making another round for tips. Turns out, Greg is wrong. These ladies are making it rain. Jared’s at the edge of the stage on his knees, thighs spread, while the women tuck bills in his garter. Jensen sees a few hands stroke up the inside of Jared’s thigh toward the bulge in his jockstrap, and he’s about to give a warning when out of nowhere, one of the women grabs the top of Jared’s thighs and face-plants in his crotch. Jared’s already lifting her off him when Jensen moves in, but as soon as she doesn’t have a face full of dick, the woman makes a grab for Jared’s jockstrap.

Any time one customer sees another doing something against the rules, they think they should get to do it too. The rest of Jensen’s two hours is spent ejecting five loud, drunk women and assuring a dozen drunk men that if they break club rules, they’ll get the same. 

— 

When Jensen’s Friday shift break comes he heads to the back bar for dinner. Jared’s there. He’s wearing a mesh tank top and red brief shorts. He’s a bit sweaty, the ends of his hair curling against his jaw, but he smells like cologne and mint gum.

“Leave off the onions,” Jared says to the guy taking his order, right as Jensen walks up beside him. 

There’s a million things Jensen knows he should be able to come up with to launch a conversation off that one line; something funny, or clever, preferably both. But he’s got nothing.

_You’re hot. Unusually so, really. I’m fairly handsome myself. We should have sex._

_So you don’t want onions? Are you allergic or is that just because you want fresh breath when writhing on the laps of strangers? No, fuck, that sounds shitty. Like I’m judging him for being a sex worker. Am I?_

“Blink,” Jared says. 

Jensen blinks. He’s staring again, midway up Jared’s chest where his nipples show through the shirt. Either Jared doesn’t grow hair there, or he shaves. Or waxes. He obviously waxes in other places, because his legs are . . .

Jensen looks away. “Ah, sorry.” 

“It was either a seizure or a total lack of social graces. Glad we won’t need medical intervention.”

It’s a little prissy, but overall Jared seems in a fairly amenable mood.

“So why don’t you want onions?” It comes out before Jensen can consider. He just needs to sustain the conversation. 

Jared looks at him, eyebrows drawing down. “They’re gross.”

“That was my third guess.”

“What?” Jared says, breathing out a half-laugh. The word brings out dimples in both cheeks.

“You’re either allergic to them or you don’t like them or you don’t want them because you’re still dancing.”

Jared stares at him. “Right. Now I’m going to go eat my onionless food.”

Overall, Jensen thinks that went pretty well.

— 

There are laws about nudity, especially nudity in places that serve alcohol, but apparently those can all be overcome by artistic expression. All things are legal in the name of art.

“Karen’s idea,” Will tells Jensen. Karen is Ted’s sister, and co-owner of the club. 

“We did Shakespeare earlier this year. That was pretty funny.”

Jensen’s seen plenty of strange things, but dancers stripping to Shakespeare is new. 

Jensen heads back to the kitchen for some caffeine before opening. One of the bartenders stops working to say “hi”, and Jensen nods in reply. The guy isn’t his type, but Jensen’s learned the value of having the wait staff like you. Jensen takes his coffee out to the floor. As soon as the music starts the house lights go off and _Territory_ is officially open for business. It’s going to be a long shift. 

— 

Jensen washes his hands, cups water to rinse the stale taste of coffee from his mouth. He’s dying for a smoke. This is the busiest he’s seen the club. The draw of naked dick is strong.

Someone has left an advertisement flyer on the bathroom counter. A few more are crumpled in the trash can. Without touching it, Jensen scans the one on the counter.

 _Beneath The Suit_ is the name of the play. Jensen wonders what it’s based on, or if someone at the club wrote it. The flyer shows the torso and hips of a guy stripping off his suit jacket and white shirt, pants undone.  
Jensen scans the rest—drink specials, cover price —over to the cast. 

_Tommy as JIMMY- The boss’ nephew_

The bathroom door opens and Jensen looks over, straight into bright blue eyes. The guy stares back. His head is shaved Marine-short, and he has diamond studs in both ears.

“Please tell me that security shirt is just a costume,” he says.

“No,” Jensen says.

The guy grins, “Worth a try. I’m Reuben.”

“Hope you’re having a good night, Reuben.” Jensen steps toward the door.

“Oh, c’mon, I don’t even get a name?”

“You have a name. Apparently it’s Reuben.”

Reuben laughs like it’s going to kill him. 

Jensen would probably fuck this guy, but he can’t encourage anyone to come on to him while he’s working. 

Reuben says, “Catch you later,” as Jensen leaves. 

— 

The main floor is packed. Both Cecil and another bouncer, Tony, are working it with Jensen tonight and they’ve already had to escort someone out for being a loud, disruptive drunk. The “play” runs all night on repeat, each act the length of a set, but ending with everything hanging out in the open.

Jared’s first set of the night he comes on stage wearing a leather jacket, nothing underneath, black lace underwear, biker boots, stockings and garter belt. Jensen’s not sure, but he thinks Jared’s also wearing eye makeup, his lashes extra long and dark. 

The guy who follows him on stage is almost as tall. White-blond hair, pale brows and lashes. When he strips off his shirt his skin is pale and freckled. The music is barely below regular volume, but no one seems to care they can’t hear any lines. The dancers pantomime a disagreement, looking vaguely upset, and then Jared’s center stage, back to the blond dancer. His hips move in slow circles as his slides the leather jacket off his shoulders. The blond guy takes it from him and tosses it toward the edge of the stage. He sets his hands on Jared’s hips, moving with him, and then reaches around, palming his crotch, rubbing over the stretched-tight material.

Jensen pulls his gaze away, because that’s really not what he’s here for, and when he looks back Jared is thrusting his hips up into the blond dancers hand, head tipped back against his shoulder. 

“Let’s see some appreciation,” the DJ says. “You know what that looks like, yeah. Tommy and Rainy. Let’s hear it for these boys.”

The blond guy— Rainy, apparently—spins Jared around, grabs his ass. While he’s doing that, Jared rips Rainy’s pants off. Rainy shoves Jared away, against one of the poles. Jensen can see Jared say something, lips moving without sound. Maybe he’s not saying anything.

When Jared ends up on his knees, back arched, Rainy humping his ass as customers shove bills down the front of his underwear and into the tops of his stockings, Jensen’s half hard in his pants. Jensen tells himself it's fake, all for show, but he still can’t help getting off on it. And Jared’s looking out over the crowd, lips parted and eyes hooded like he’s getting off on this, too. Maybe he is. Jensen hopes so, because Jensen wants to fuck him. Or be fucked by him. Any way he can get it. The novelty of naked bodies wore off pretty quick after he started in strip clubs. The glamor is impossible to maintain for anyone who works in the industry. But sometimes there’s someone who transcends the context. And that sounds stupid, even in Jensen’s own head.

Rainy stands up, rolling his hips as he works his g-string down. When his dick and balls are free he starts gyrating his hips, swinging his junk to the beat of the music. Jared gets up to his knees, turning around, and Rainy grabs his head, thrusting like he’s fucking Jared’s face. Jared has his hands on the other dancer’s hips, but he’s keeping Rainy’s naked genitals away, head turned slightly.

The DJ starts in again and the stage is increasingly covered with crumpled bills. Jared’s clothes are bristling with them. Jared rolls to standing, back still arched, leg muscles taut. His hair is a mess from Rainy’s fingers (sex hair, Jensen’s brain informs). Jared rolls his hips, stomach muscles contracting and relaxing, sliding hands up his own thighs. In one move, the underwear come off, leaving Jared in garter belt, stockings and boots, everything on full display. No tan lines.

Jensen takes a slow, deep breath of stale, humid air. Holds it.

— 

“So can I give you my number now?”

“Why not,” Jensen says. 

“It’s Reuben, by the way.”

Jensen looks back, refocusing. 

Reuben grins. “You were looking a little lost.”

“Reuben. Alright. It’ll have to be your place.”

Reuben smile is slower, but lasts. “Okay, you’re direct. I can work with that.”

Credit where credit is due, Reuben really does work with it. 

“Couldn’t believe I was that lucky,” Reuben says after round two. His place is non-smoking but he lets Jensen light up anyway. “You know you’re the hottest guy in that place?”

Jensen shrugs. 

“Yeah, you are. By far.”

Objectively, Jensen might agree. But personally he can’t, because Jared. 

— 

It’s the end of Saturday night and there’s a decent crowd to witness Jared take a tumble off the pole. More specifically, an uncontrolled slide with his head leading the way. Transitioning into a Brass Monkey, Jared’s grip seems to go. He tries to stop himself with his legs on the pole, but still hits the stage floor headfirst. Jensen is moving around the room, he almost misses it.

Jared more or less falls off the pole, but tries to make it look like a dismount. For a moment, he sits there, and that’s when Jensen really starts to worry. Then the next second he’s getting up, going on with the set. 

Jensen circles around to the back bar. “You got a cold pack or something?” Jensen knows the dancers keep ice packs in the freezer of the mini fridge in the locker room. Jared will probably go straight there. He doesn’t need Jensen. 

“The other kind of full contact sex work,” the bartender says when he hands Jensen a ziplock full of ice.

Jensen hands it to Jared as he comes off stage. Jared doesn’t say anything, but he takes it, though he doesn’t hold it against his head till he’s leaving the main floor. 

Fifteen minutes later he’s back again, leaning over a forty-something in a suit jacket, saying something in his ear that the guy really seems to like. The next time Jensen looks, they’re ordering drinks. Five minutes later, they’ve moved to the VIP area.

It’s almost five in the morning when Jensen leaves the club. He’s walking to his car when he hears someone cursing. It’s Jared’s tall body throwing a sharp shadow under the parking lot lights. 

“ . . . fucking piece of shit,” Jared hisses. He has the hood up on a late model Subaru, but he doesn’t seem to be doing anything. “Fucking . . .” Jared kicks the fender, a solid thunk. Then, he’s slamming a volley of short, vicious kicks into the front tire. Jensen hears Jared’s shoe hit metal and Jared give a kind of growling scream.

Jensen watches Jared’s heaving shoulders, each breath a white plume of vapor over his head. Jensen recognizes those shoulders. He saw them on a kid in the psych ward. Jensen spent 72 hours there and his sixteenth birthday. At the time, he wasn’t interested in addressing his own problems so he distracted himself with other peoples, watching them fall apart.

“Need a lift?” Jensen calls, and Jared looks up, his whole body shifting, loosening, hiding the sharp, shaking anger. Jensen can’t see detail in the shadow, but after a moment Jared’s head nods. 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The drive is quiet except for Jared giving directions. Jensen runs a dozen different opening lines through his head, discards them all. Jared’s hunched down in his seat, legs spread, head turned toward the window. He doesn’t want to talk. 

“Take a left after this light,” Jared says. Out of the corner of his eye Jensen sees Jared working his fingers under the edge of his hat, wincing. 

“Long day,” Jensen says.

“No fucking kidding.” And Jared seems he might be willing to commiserate, so Jensen goes for it. 

“Your head okay?”

“It’s fucking _marvelous_. Some asshole thought it would be a great idea to wear body oil on the stripper pole. I hate new kids. They’re so fucking special no one can tell them anything. They fuck the job up for everyone, even themselves.”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, already running out of conversation fillers. He scrambles for something else, something to keep Jared talking, and almost misses the turn off.

“It’s fucking nasty seeing half those guys smearing their bodily fluids all over the fucking place. The dance booths are even worse. And I know half the customers don’t wash their hands. You wanna fucking touch me? You wash your fucking hands.” Jared’s fingers at his head, pushing the knit hat up further. He winces, tugs the cap off all together, leaving his hair a wild mess, dark whorls against his neck, falling into his eyes.

“And someone needs to get Ted on Xanax or something.” Jared leans his head back, baring the roll of his throat when he swallows. “Take the next right,” and without pause, “He’s trying to push this backstage access shit. Yeah, it won’t affect him any, except more money.”

Jared doesn’t stop talking till they’ve pulled up outside his building, but he’s slurring his words a little. Jared doesn’t ask when Jensen gets out with him, but Jensen says, “I’ll walk you up.”

Jared fumbles with his keys, stumbles on the stairs, and Jensen’s starting to consider concussion a possibility. 

“Are you going to die if I leave you here?” 

Jared looks at him, eyes narrowed, but his pupils look even. “I’m fine. Tired.” He gets his door unlocked, steps through and closes it behind himself without another word. 

Jensen stands outside and listens till he hears the lock engaged, then he leaves. 

Jared’s still wearing street clothes when he finds Jensen at the start of Friday night, two days later. He’s carrying a full cardboard coffee tray, and he pulls out a cup, hands it to Jensen without a word. The heat bleeds through the sleeve into Jensen’s palm, just below the word _Thanks_ written in neat caps with blue sharpie. 

Jared’s already leaving before Jensen can think of a response. 

The coffee is the best Jensen’s had since coming to Denver. 

— 

The first few hour or so the club is open it’s usually slow, just a few guys, and not enough business to keep all the performers busy. Jensen’s at the back bar. He has the paper someone left there folded to the sports section.

“Cardinal fan?” Jared’s close enough that Jensen can sense the space he’s taking up, the shape of his body, loose clothes over tight muscle and smooth skin. There’s the faintest movement of air, warm breath on Jensen’s neck and the smell of warm, spicy cologne. It’s what Jensen noticed even before the approaching footsteps. Jared always smells like a gay fantasy.

Jensen shrugs.

Jared leans on the bar. “Dartmouth? Snob.”

“I don’t follow sports.” Jensen watches now and then, but not because he’s all that interested. It has a soporific effect he has found useful. 

“So what’s so interesting. Dream university?” 

Jared’s watching and Jensen’s not sure if he’s being mocked or Jared’s actually interested, but it’s attention, attention Jensen wants to keep, so he says, “It was my second choice.”

Jared eyebrows go up. “You were accepted to Dartmouth?”

“I never attended.” _Because I went crazy. Full blown psychotic break. My brain was just too big for my head I guess, hahaha_

“Okay, I’m less impressed,” Jared says.

Jensen doesn’t look up from the paper, doesn’t admit how hearing that hollows out his stomach, even after all these years. 

— 

After last call it’s time to start clearing the floor. The house lights go on and Will and Jensen get people up and moving, directing them toward the door where Matt has trash can set up to toss bottles. Once the flow is in motion, Jensen checks the bathrooms. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s walked in on a BJ or someone snorting crack, but tonight it’s empty. As he leaves, he spots a guy standing at entrance to the employee area. 

“Hey, we’re closing up,” Jensen calls as he walks toward him, “time to head out.”

The guy is average, head to toe, but he’s dressed like a man half his age, and his watch is Gucci.

“I’m waiting for Tommy,” he says, but he’s checking Jensen out, eyes moving down from Jensen’s face in a slow scan. 

“You can’t wait back here. And you can’t wait anywhere inside right now, we’re closing. Let’s go,” Jensen points toward the main floor with a sweep of his hand. 

“Look,” average guy says, and he’s getting pissy, “I’m waiting, it’ll be like five minutes, and then we’ll leave.”

“It’ll be like five seconds, and then I’ll carry you out.” Jensen says it with a smile, because he’s found that confuses people. Is it a threat, is it an attempt at being friendly, is it a grimace of fear? Who knows. 

“I’m not—”

“Three, two,” Jensen counts down. 

“Christ! Fine.”

Jensen follows the guy all the way to the front, delivers him to the doorman. When he gets back to the main floor, Jared’s standing by the bathrooms, looking around. 

“Did you misplace someone? About five ten, gray hair, dumb watch?”

Jared looks at him. He’s got this expression that’s completely unimpressed, eyes flat, jaw firmed, but the sweet curve of his mouth pouts. The only intimidating thing about it is how hot he looks.

“I showed him out,” Jensen says. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Jared says, turning to leave. 

Jensen watches him go, every step thinking he should say something to stop him. 

When Jensen gets back to his motel room, he searches for Jared’s profile on escort sites.  
Jensen knows it’s stupid, the same kind of behavior he heard the girls at his past clubs complain about, but it doesn’t stop him. When he finally finds it, it takes him a moment to recognize Jared in the tiny pictures, shirtless, smiling.

Jensen considers dialing the number listed. Making an appointment. Maybe Jared’s not interested in fucking him casually, but there’s no reason to turn Jensen down as a customer. It’s probably the only way he’ll get Jared into bed with him. 

It’s the coffee that stops Jensen, the _Thanks_ written on the side. Whatever is there, undefined and fragile, Jensen doesn’t want to take the chance on screwing it up. 

There are names on Jensen’s phone he can’t place, people he’s long since forgotten. But Reuben’s number is there, too, so Jensen calls that. 

— 

Jared’s leaving just as Jensen’s coming in for his shift, and they meet at the door. Jensen steps back, holding the door for Jared to step out and the paper tags on Jared’s coat zipper catch his eye. 

“You ski?” 

Jared glances down at the lift tickets. “Board. Sometimes. Yeah.”

“Anyplace you recommend?”

Jared hesitates, then says. “Keystone. It’s . . . uh, where I’ve been going mostly. They have night skiing. A couple of my buddies and me do that.”

Jensen hasn’t been skiing since he was a teenager. It’s Jared more than the memory of the sport that has Jensen about to ask if Jared wants to go with him, instead. He gets saved when Jared says,

“You want to come some time? My car’s such shit it won’t make it up to a ski hill, but a friend has an SUV we take.”

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “Yeah, definitely.”

— 

Jensen enjoys skiing more than he remembers. It’s a little like driving long stretches of empty highway, the silent chill lit in stark blue light, the hush of snow, the open space swallowing up noise. 

Chad’s there, and so is Chad’s girlfriend Whitney, and another guy named Chris, the guy with the SUV.

And there’s Jared. Not the Jared Jensen sees on stage. Not the Jared he sees off stage. Not the Jared he saw for a moment, in a second’s explosion of rage. This Jared is clean, bright energy and excitement. He laughs. Absurdly, giggles. He’s screaming when he tears past, racing Chad down the hill. When Jensen joins them at the lift line Jared’s trying to tackle Chad, one foot still locked into his board.

They ride up five together on the lift chair: Chad, Whitney, Jared, Jensen, and Chris. As soon as they’re seated Chris pulls off his gloves, unzips a pocket and takes out a cigarette pack. Jensen never bothered with marijuana, but he’s been around weed smokers enough to recognize the blunts. 

Chris lights one up, and after a few draws he leans across Jensen to hand it to Jared.

“Good shit, yeah?” Chris asks, and Jared makes an affirmative sound in his throat. It sounds a little like he’s getting his dick sucked. Or doing the sucking. 

The comparison is subconscious on Jensen’s part, and unexpectedly, it makes him uncomfortable, even as he’s getting a nice, warm ache building in his cock and balls. It isn’t the thinking about sex, which Jensen does fairly often regardless, but that Jared, even in bulky snow gear, hat, goggles and all, lives in a constant sexual context. There’s a downside to seeing someone’s naked dick before you’ve seen their honest smile. 

Jared hands the joint back to Chris, and Chris offers it to Jensen. Jensen refuses with a shake of his head. 

“You sure?” Chris asks as he passes it down to Chad. “This is good stuff. Pretty much why I moved up here. That and snow.”

“Nothing to do with the bench warrant, right?” Jared says.

“Hey, fuck you. Chad and me had to watch your ass, didn’t we?”

“How do you guys know each other?” Jensen asks, and Chris looks over at Jared, eyebrows raised in question. 

It’s Chad who says, “We worked for the same place in California.”

“You work with Jared, right?” Chris gestures between Jared and Jensen.

“Yeah,” Jensen says.

“Okay, so Chad and me were in Cali, and sometimes we worked at this really shitty little dive. Dancing and shit. And one day the boss hires a new kid, this skinny little twink who obviously—“

“I was not—” Jared says.

“—was underage and he can’t dance but it’s not like—”

“Fuck you Chris, you can’t dance,” Jared says.

“So Chad and me, we figure we should help him out, make sure he knows how to take care of himself.”

“I’m so grateful, really,” Jared says. 

Chad laughs. “Hey, Chris, remember the time he drank like a fifth of Beam and we took him—”

“Christ that was brutal. I thought he was going to kill himself.”

“These assholes are not my friends, just so you know,” Jared says, and Jensen realizes Jared’s talking to him. They’re close enough their legs touch, and Jensen’s almost afraid to turn his head, because Jared’s mouth will be right there.

“No one wants to hear this story again, guys.” Whitney says. “Seriously.”

“Jensen does,” Chris says. 

“You all moved up here together?” Jensen asks, carefully not looking at Jared.

“Jared first.” Chris reaches across Jensen to accept the blunt passed down from Whitney. “Chad and me like a year later? Yeah. Chad wanted to get back into shaking his ass for cash, so he hit up Jared. Figured someone as pretty as Jare-bear would still be in the business.”

“Yeah, Chris,” Jared says. “Too bad no one wants to see an ugly old man like you taking off their clothes.”

Chris blows out a cloud of smoke. “And Jared’s such a funny kid, we just couldn’t stay away.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s becoming subconscious, scanning the room with a particular attention for Jared. It’s a little like walking on a bum leg in an attempt to reassure yourself it isn’t that bad. It doesn’t help that Jared’s a sniper stripper, the kind that chooses a mark and spends time luring him in. He’ll laugh and chat with guys, let them buy him overpriced drinks, touch them causally, lets them do just enough touching in return before he has them hooked and paying for a nice, long chunk of time. It’s probably what gets him regulars who wait, turning down other dancers till Jared’s free.

Jensen keeping an eye on the entrance to the VIP area. Not ten minutes ago Jared took a couple guys back to one of the champagne rooms. And it’s not that Jensen wants to watch Jared’s grind on some guy’s dick or get humped on stage, whatever his libido thinks. But Jensen’s been around the gay scene long enough to know a champagne room visit often turns into something more.

He checks his watch, and when he looks back up, Cecil is signaling with his flashlight.

“We got a situation in the gold room,” he says when Jensen walks over. 

The music is loud enough Jensen is almost there before he hears, 

“ . . . fucking hands off. I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

And that’s Jared. 

Jensen’s moving before he even processes the situation. It’s drunk fighting, the kind Jensen has had to wade into on more than one occasion. In the tangle of moving bodies Jared’s identifiable by being mostly naked. When one of the customers hauls back to throw a punch, Jensen grabs his wrist, yanks him out of the melee, and Cecil’s there to take him.

Jared’s slender—lean muscle and not much else. Jensen has at least ten pounds on him, but as soon as he gets a grip, it’s like he’s trying to hold a sack of angry cats. 

“Get off, get the fuck off . . .” Jared’s yelling.

Jared’s elbow slams into Jensen’s ribs and Jensen’s hold slips. He gets a mouthful of hair when Jared’s head almost cracks his teeth. He tastes blood, feels Jared’s lithe body twisting away, and Jensen turns them, pushing Jared toward the wall. Jared’s panting, mouth open, hair in his face, obscuring his eyes. His glittery brief shorts are pulled down, showing his hip and base of his penis. It makes him look unexpectedly vulnerable.

The bouncer protocol is always separate and distance. Jensen keeps Jared at the far side of the small room while Cecil and Matt take the two customers out. Jensen can hear voices, sharp and hoarse with inarticulate rage, moving away.

Jensen touches tentative fingers to his lip, examines the blood they come away with. He pulls up his t-shirt collar to wipe the blood off his chin and neck. 

Jared shifts, turns away from Jensen as he pulls his underwear back into place. He’s breathing in short, harsh pants, muscles in his back and arms jumping and flexing. 

Jared takes a deep, shuddering breath, one hand coming around to grip the opposite arm, moving to his face. “Shit,” Jared whispers. 

— 

“He’s a cop.”

It’s the first thing Jared’s said in twenty minutes. Jensen already knows one of the guys was a cop. When Matt and Cecil were escorting the two customers out, one of them started drunkenly threatening arrest. 

Jared stubs out his cigarette and Jensen offers him another. It’s too cold to be standing around outside, and they’re sitting in Jensen’s car, still parked in _Territory_ ’s parking lot.

“Greg’s pissed,” and that was a big understatement, but Jared doesn’t need to be told that. Greg’s already had a talk with him. A yelling at, really. “But he doesn’t seem too worried.” Jensen puts a fresh cigarette between his lips, lights up. Greg probably isn’t worried because Ted isn’t worried, because Ted knows some bigwig in the Denver police. 

Jared turns his head, gives Jensen a long look. Half of his face is shadowed black. “I don’t give a fuck about the club or Greg, or fucking Ted. He said he knows my dad.”

Jensen has to backtrack for a second to realize Jared’s talking about the customer knowing his dad. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Jared mention his family. 

Jared brings the cigarette up for another drag and Jensen sees his hand is shaking. 

“Jared,” Jensen says, feeling deeply inadequate. He didn’t ask what happened with the two customers in the champagne room, and now . . . “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Jared gives a sharp exhale that sounds almost like a sob. He brings a hand up, rubbing his thumb over his eyebrow, presses between his eyes. “He was talking about telling my dad about my job. I don’t know how he knows who I am, I’m pretty fucking sure I’ve never seen him till today—” Jared’s talking faster and faster, and the cigarette between his fingers shakes harder. “I didn’t tell him anything, not my name, Jesus Christ if my—”

Jensen reaches for Jared, like he can stick a hand into the current of Jared’s word-flood, slow it down. Jared turns sharply toward the movement, and they’re close enough it brings them face-to-face. The smoke in Jensen’s mouth drifts between them. Jensen’s gaze drops to Jared’s mouth. He shouldn’t be thinking about kissing Jared right now, not like this. Jared’s lips are parted, looking as vulnerable as his trembling hands. Jensen wants to help him as much as he wants to kiss him. One because of the other because of both. 

“He was just messing with you,” Jensen says. “Trying to humiliate you or make a power play.”

Jared breaks the stare. “I don’t think so. He knew my dad’s a cop. I haven’t told anyone that.”

“What will your dad do if this guy does tell him about your job?”

“I don’t know.” Jared lifts his cigarette, but it’s a burnt down stub and he presses it into the ashtray. “He could do anything.”

Anything is a lot to cover, but Jensen’s willing to try.

“It’s not really about my job. It’s never about one thing, but it sets . . .” Jared presses the heel of his hand against one eye. “You don’t want to hear this shit. Sorry.”

Jensen thinks it’s something he read in a book, but I might have been something one of his therapists said. Maybe something one of his therapists read from a book. About sharing something personal to get people to open up or make a connection . . .“When I was eighteen, I may have tried to kill myself. I just can’t remember if the overdose was accidental or on purpose.”

Jared’s staring at Jensen. “Yeah, I don’t know what to do with that,” he shakes his head.

“All I mean is, we’ve all got shit. Sometimes it helps to,” Jensen makes a vague motion, “share it.”

After a moment Jared says, “My dad’s fucked in the head.” His voice is quiet. “And he takes it out on his family. Mostly my mom. He gets angry about something or nothing, and he beats the shit out of her.”

The silence stretches, and Jared seems to be waiting for something. As if what Jensen says or doesn’t say will decide what Jared reveals. Jensen thinks of what he knows about domestic abuse, about police, and says, “And she can’t go to the police, because they’ll cover for your dad?”

Jared licks his lips, nods. “Or he’d find out and kill her. I have a plan to get them out safe, but if something sets my dad off before then he could . . . I don’t fucking know. Every time I read about some guy losing it, like, doing a murder suicide I . . . my dad threatens that, all the time. Threatens to kill my mom and then himself, or all the kids and shit like that. My mom won’t try to leave ‘cause if he catches her, that’s what he’ll do. We all know it. ”

Jensen feels a little sick, thinking about Jared trying to stop this all by himself. “What do you need to get them out safe?”

“Someone to kill my dad.” Jared gives a hoarse chuckle. “You offering?”

“Maybe.”

Jared shivers, a sharp twitch. The car is already warm, but Jensen turns the heat up a notch. 

“Money,” Jared says after a silence. “My mom can’t keep any. My siblings are too young to really earn any. He controls all the money, and when he’s angry he’ll take my mom’s car keys. She can’t get help from people in town, they won’t fucking believe her. He tells people shit about her, like, says she’s crazy and stuff.”

“I can help,” Jensen says before he can think the offer through. 

“No offense, but I make way more than you, and I still haven’t saved up enough.”

“How much do you need?”

“I don’t know. I have to get a place for them to live, way away from my dad. Some place safe he won’t find us. I think we need a good lawyer, too, ‘cause no way we can hide forever.”

Jensen’s life is simple. It doesn’t have a past, it doesn’t have a future. He fucked all that away a long time ago. The last thing he wants to do is wade back through it all, go back to examine the scene of the failures. It’s something he’s determined to never do, and now he’s seriously considering doing just that for a guy he barely knows. It’s the same dumb-ass thing he’s seen a hundred guys do for a pretty face, shelling out cash to buy a place in someone’s life. Like the drunks Jensen pours into taxis at the end of the night, or the performers who can barely sign their own name and blow all their cash on crack and thousand dollar shoes, it gives Jensen a sense of superiority knowing he’s not that kind of loser. He’s _a_ kind of loser, but by God, he’s not that kind of fucking loser. He’s a loser who was almost a winner! 

Jensen hates himself, and the more he admits he hates himself, he hates himself. 

“Okay,” Jensen says, “I have a house in Arizona you all can stay at. I can help you—”

“What? No.” Jared says, sharp. 

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not . . .you’re . . . this isn’t your problem, okay?”

“I’m offering, like some people help with whatever. I’m not using it, someone should.”

Jared’s quiet for a long moment. “You seriously have a house?”

“Yeah. And a trust fund of about half a million. See? I’m a very useful person.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jared whispers. Jensen takes that as a “yes”.

— 

Jensen drives Jared home. He walks him to his apartment door, and when Jared doesn’t say one way or the other, Jensen follows him inside. 

Jared’s walking like a zombie, eyes vague and glassy. The manic high is gone and when Jensen asks him if he needs anything, Jared makes a vague noise in response. 

“Maybe you should just go to bed.”

Jared turns, looks at Jensen like he has no idea what Jensen is doing there. “Yeah. Maybe I should. I need to . . . should call my little brother tell him . . . What time is it?”

Jensen checks his watch. “About six.”

“Okay.” Jared turns and walks down the short hall to the bedroom. He leaves the door ajar and for the next three minutes Jensen can see Jared passing back and forth till the light shuts off. 

Jensen glances around. A small living room with a sofa, side table, chair. A huge screen on a stand against the wall, a tangle of cords and game controllers on the shelf beneath it. Jensen finds the TV remote and moves to the chair. He keeps the volume down low, starts channel surfing.

It’s just past noon and Jensen’s eyes feel gritty, his body sluggish. He’s checked on Jared twice, some inexplicable fear following him down the hall to stand just inside the bedroom door. Jared’s sacked out, asleep on his stomach, hair dark against the pillow. The bedclothes are bunched around his hips, the curve of his naked spine shadowed in the gray light. 

Jensen leaves the apartment at half past noon, locking the door behind himself. Before he pulls away from the curb, he pulls out his pocket notebook and writes down Jared address. In five minutes he probably won’t even know which apartment Jared’s in. After that, Jensen drives around the neighborhood in a widening wander till he finds a coffee shop. He buys fresh bagels, raspberry bear paws, and two of the biggest coffees they sell.

When Jared finally answers his door he’s only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. The lack of clothes is normal, but the warm, creased skin, the tangled hair Jared keeps combing away from his face as he tries to focus on Jensen . . . it’s Jensen’s new favorite thing.

“The fuck?” Jared rasps.

And that voice. Jensen really likes this version of Jared. 

Jensen grins, feels the ache in his cut lip. “I brought you breakfast.”

“Okay?” Jared frowns, but steps back to make way for Jensen. As Jensen moves past he catches Jared’s scent of clean cotton and warm skin, a little musky. It smells like guy and bed, and that has Jensen’s mind going straight to fucking. 

“Why’re you . . .” Jared breaks off in a yawn. “ . . . what time’s it?”

“One.”

“Jesus.” Jared reaches for the coffee tray, lifts out one of the cups. He pops off the lid, sets the cup down and walks to the refrigerator. Jensen watches the line of Jared’s spine sharpen and curve, the dimples just above the waistband of his boxers symmetrical thumb prints. There are bruises on the inside of his thighs that Jensen knows are from pole.

Jared pours milk into his coffee. He doesn’t look at Jensen when he says, “I take it coffee means you aren’t too pissed about the busted lip?”

“No hard feelings.”

“Sorry anyway.”

Jensen nods, takes a drink of coffee.

“So last night . . .”

Jensen waits. He doesn’t mention that a lot of what Jared said didn’t completely stick. He’s still got the general idea. 

Jared doesn’t say anything, though, and Jensen realizes, he’s uncomfortable about it. 

Jensen says, “I meant everything I said.”

It seems to be what Jared needs because he half smiles, says, “I think I need a smoke.”

They sit at Jared’s kitchen counter. Jensen eats a bagel and drinks coffee while Jared lights up a joint. 

“What you said last night, about trying to kill yourself? That have something to do with why you don’t drink?”

Jensen watches Jared’s cheeks hollow out as he inhales. “Yeah. But I had a problem with alcohol for a while before that.” Truth is, Jensen can now admit he had a problem with alcohol long before either his mental break or suicide attempt. His first drink was at fourteen and he never looked back.

Three beats and Jared exhales. He tosses hair out of his eyes. “That must suck, working around it all the time.”

“It’s not so bad. Reminds me why I don’t want to get back into it.”

Jared laughs, low and hoarse. “Yeah, I hear that.” There’s a moment of silence, then Jared says, “ I think about it sometimes. Killing myself. I used to think about it more, but . . . before I left home, I thought about it a lot. And we never talk about that kind of shit in my family, but now I have to wonder if my little brothers and sister think about it too.” Jared’s watching his coffee cup as he turns it around and around. “Fucks me up wondering if they might do it. I know I was really close a time or two.”

There’s a desperate edge to Jared’s voice, like all this has been inside him for a long, long time. Jensen has nothing to say that will help, no words of advice or comfort. All he can do is let Jared talk, so he asks, “How old were you when you left?”

“Seventeen. I waited till I was eighteen to move here. It’s closer. I wanted . . . I called home for the first time in two years, a few days after Christmas. And my little sister answers. She starts crying, telling me how my dad got so mad after I left, he beat my mom till she had to go to the hospital and he told everyone she slipped on ice.”

Jared exhales a shaky breath, brings the joint up for another inhale. “Sorry,” he says, glancing at Jensen. “You gotta listen to all this shit and you aren’t even high. I’m a bad host. You want to watch something? I have Netflix.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll get dressed, at least. You see me naked enough.”

Jensen doesn’t say he really, really doesn’t mind, and Jared leaves to put on ratty jeans and a t-shirt. When he gets back he goes to the refrigerator, brings back a bottle of beer and one of cherry lime soda. He raises his eyebrows, offers it to Jensen. 

“So, I hate to ask, but . . . is there some way you could, like, prove you actually have that house and shit?”

“And shit? You mean a shit ton of money?”

Jared laughs, almost a giggle. He hides it pretty well, but he’s definitely high. 

“Yeah, that.”

“Yes,” Jensen says, that hollow feeling opening up in his stomach. “It’s all part of the same trust fund. You talk to the executor. If I tell him to, he’ll give you any information you want.”

Jared’s phone buzzes and Jared makes a growling sound, digs it out of his pocket.

His hair falls against his jaw and into his eyes when he leans forward, cradling the phone in his hands, thumbs moving over the screen. “Fucking dumbass,” he mutters. 

Jared sighs out a breath, combs his hair away from his face. “I’ve got to go.” He looks at Jensen sideways. “So . . . thanks for the coffee.”

Jensen blinks. “Yeah, okay.”

“It’s, uh . . .” Jared’s staring at him, his eyes wide. “It’s just a client. We have an appointment.” It might be the alcohol, but Jared’s cheeks are flushed.

“Got it,” Jensen says, but it’s not what he wants to say. “I’ll let myself out.” Not what he wants to do.

“You have my number,” Jared says, makes it a question. 

Jensen nods. 

“Okay.”

The silence stretches long, heavy, till Jared says, “I should go get ready. Need to shave my balls.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Jensen says, and suddenly they are both laughing, cracking up so hard they have to hold on the edge of counter or fall down. 

— 

After a week away, Jared’s back at the club for the Thanksgiving Day late shift. The security footage of the champagne room shows one of the customers approaching Jared as he gave the second guy a lap dance. There’s no sound on the video, but it’s obvious what he wants when he’s touching Jared’s face, grabbing his head, pulling it toward his crotch. Jared gets up to leave, and one of the guys grabs his arm, hauling him up short. Words are exchanged, and Jared shoves the guy off. The struggle starts after that. 

Jensen thinks it’s pretty clear Jared’s not at fault. Apparently that doesn’t matter, because Greg puts Jared on probation. Jensen considers looking the two customers up, giving them something other than Jared to think about. He considers it again when Jared texts, 

_i don’t think anyone knows how to contact me if something did happen_

He means his family, and he’s afraid the cop from _Territory_ really will tell Jared’s dad something that will set him off. Jensen still gets the odd, hollow feeling when he thinks about digging up his old life, but now it’s balanced by the deep, aching need to make everything okay for Jared, forever. Overbalanced, honestly.

In the sudden flood of text communication Jensen has learned Jared has four siblings: Summer, Jeremy, Kyle and Keith. He’s learned that Jared’s family lives in Wyoming, that they moved there when Jared was a kid. He’s learned that Chad and Chris don’t know about Jared’s dad. They’re apparently as flaky as they seem. It shouldn’t make Jensen happy to know Jared doesn’t have any close friends, that it’s him Jared chose to trust with his past and family. But it does. Jensen assuages that with the fact that he can actually help Jared. Jensen puts Jared in contact with the lawyer in charge of Jensen’s fund, the same guy Jensen has been dodging for years. He sends Jared public property records for the house that used to be Jensen’s grandparents before they went into assisted living. Instead of selling or renting, they added it to Jensen’s trust fund. 

“It’s nice,” Jared says. “Why don’t you live there?”

Jensen’s brain can’t come up with the right words for that question, and after a long silence Jared changes the subject.

Together, they have a plan to get Jared’s family to Arizona in time for Christmas. 

Jared’s dancing his first set of the night. Holidays are some of their busiest nights, but the tips must be slow right now because Jared’s not doing much. Jensen scans the room, then signals Will he’s moving. 

On stage, Jared starts a transition up the pole, moves into something that Jensen thinks is a modified Brass Bridge. Jared’s wearing blue briefs that cup his penis and scrotum and with his back arched, pelvis tilted, everything is on display. It makes Jensen’s stomach tight with want, a base, heavy lust. He likes Jared, just Jared and not Jared’s body, but it’s difficult to separate the two feelings. Jensen’s not accustomed to thinking about his future, but lately, he’s come perilously close. Jared needs to be in it, but Jensen doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

On the stage Jared spreads his legs, rolls his hips as he hooks both thumbs into the front of his underwear, tugging them down to the show the taut skin of his groin. His moving gaze catches Jensen’s; lips parted, eyes hooded, colored light limning the hollow of his cheek, and for a second Jensen’s convinced, it’s genuine. So he tells himself it’s not.

— 

Once the doors are locked Jensen clocks out and heads back to the dressing room to get Jared. If Jared doesn’t take a cab, Jensen drives him home. Jared’s car is unreliable, but more importantly, it doesn’t have snow tires. 

Outside the snow has turned heavy, thick feathery flakes falling straight down. Jared knocks snow off the passenger side of the windshield, swipes a handful off the hood, shapes a snowball. “Snow day,” he says, and lobs the ball over Jensen’s head. 

Jensen starts the car, turned the heat on high.

Jared’s checking his phone, frowning. 

“Something wrong?” Jensen asks.

“My little brother sent me about a million texts.” Jared holds the phone to his ear. The hiss of the windshield wipers are the loudest thing in the car, and Jensen can hear the voice message prompt on the other end of Jared’s phone. Jared hangs up, scrolls through his contact, dials anther number. 

“Hey,” Jared’s voice is low, careful. “You have off tomorrow?”

No one is answering Jared’s call.

“Next three days,” Jensen says. The next year, if that’s what Jared needs. 

“You up to driving to Wyoming?”

— 

They stop by Jared’s apartment for him to change clothes and throw a few things in a bag, then do the same at Jensen’s motel. Jared waits in the car with the engine running. Inside, Jensen turns the TV on to the weather channel, lets it play as he collects his toothbrush and razor from the bathroom, throws clothes into his duffle.

Jensen drops into the driver’s seat, tossing his bag in the back. Jared’s checking his phone again.

“Anything?” Jensen asks. Jared shakes his head. 

The snow doesn’t let up. The highway is a white expanse, marked by the fading tire tracks of other vehicles. 

“Don’t you just love holidays?” Jared’s has his head resting against the window. Something about him seems very young right now.

“I don’t know,” Jensen says. “They’re just any other day for me.”

“Yeah. Same. Except I make a lot more money.”

After a moment, Jared asks, “When’s the last time you spent it with your family?”

Jensen has to pause, search for the memory. “About five years.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Not really.”

Jared’s quiet for a long time. 

“I miss mine. My mom used to work for the DA. That’s how they met. And she’s really smart, was really good at it. I think that’s why he made her quit. After I was born, he made her quit. I was three or something. That’s right around the time she got pregnant with Summer.” Jared glances at Jensen. “C’mon. Don’t make me feel stupid Tell me something about your parents. Something . . . like how they fucked up your childhood..”

“I don’t think they fucked up my childhood. My dad is a professor of mathematics, my mom’s a lawyer. Between the two of them they have seven degrees. I felt I needed to live up to that.”

“By being smart, successful?

“Yeah, both. I can’t blame them. I was a pathological overachiever, and I failed.” 

Jared shifts, turning toward Jensen. “What happened?”

“I had a psychotic break two weeks before I was supposed to leave for college. I was sixteen.”

“Christ. Why didn’t your parents stop you, before that? Be like, ‘hey slow down’?”

“I guess they didn’t think I needed to.”

“That sucks. What happened?”

“You mean, how did I go from Ivy League to slumming it in strip clubs?”

Jared’s quiet and when Jensen glances over he’s studying Jensen with dark eyes. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jensen says. 

“Whatever.”

“I spent seventy-two hours in a psych ward. I got a therapist. I went on medication. I started drinking like a fish. It was like the whole episode flipped a switch. Before, for sixteen years, I couldn’t fail at anything. And then after, I couldn’t succeed at anything. I’d fuck up pouring cereal. So, I don’t know . . . I guess I tried to kill myself.”

There’s silence in the car after that. It’s not uncomfortable, more introspective, and Jensen figures they both have plenty to think about, even if the conversation feels a lot like they’re avoiding the elephant in the room. Car. A big, fat one sitting in the back seat.

“How’d you stop?” Jared asks, voice quiet. 

“I was scared shitless.” Jensen can still remember waking up in the hospital, thinking he’d had another break down. That scared him badly enough. But when they told him his dad had found him on the bathroom floor, when they told him the doctor had to pump his stomach, that they lost him once in the ambulance and another time in the ER, Jensen had felt a numbing, smothering terror like nothing else. 

“I didn’t want to die. I don’t know how it could have been an accident, because apparently I overdosed on my prescription meds, then added alcohol and some oxycodone, but I never wanted to die. It really messed me up, messed my brain up. Guess I don’t need to worry about college now.” He grins, self-depreciating, but when he glances at Jared, Jared looks sad, eyes wide, mouth frowning. 

“Doesn’t matter now,” Jensen assures him. “I got clean, I moved on.”

“I think it matters,” Jared says. “I’m sorry all that happened to you, Jensen.”

They don’t talk again till Jensen pulls over for coffee and snacks. Then Jared says, “Hey, grab me something? I gotta piss like a race horse.”

When they’re back in the car Jared tears open a package of gummy bears with his teeth. He frowns at the candy. “What’s that supposed to mean anyway, ‘piss like a race horse’?”

“They give the horses Lasix before a race, so they don’t bleed in their lungs and nose. It’s a diuretic, makes them pee gallons.”

“Seriously?” Jared shakes out a handful of bears. “Why the fuck do you even know that?”

— 

It’s seven in the morning, still gray pre-dawn, when Jensen turns down the street Jared directed him to. They cruise slowly past a green two story with a snow-covered truck in the driveway. 

“Okay, he’s still here,” Jared says.

“That bad or good?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“What do you want to do?”

Jared chews on his lower lip for a moment. “Shit, I don’t know. If I show up and he sees me that’ll piss him off. But if something happened, I need to know.”

“What if I go and ring the doorbell, have some excuse like I’m looking for directions? Just kind of check the place out.”

Jared hesitates. “Yeah, maybe.” 

“I could ask to use the phone, get inside?”

They drive to the end of the street, to a tiny snow-covered park. Jared gets out and Jensen drives back down to the green house. When he gets out, he leaves his phone inside, but the car running. Just in case. 

The front walk is un-shoveled, deep in fresh snow. Jensen walks carefully up the front steps, rings the bell. After a moment, he’s about to press it again when the door opens. Through the security door Jensen meets the gaze of a guy that could be Jared’s in twenty five years. Pale green eyes, short graying hair, solid shoulders and biceps stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

“Yeah?”

“Hi, it’s early, sorry, but my phone died, and I’m trying to get in contact with—”

Jared’s dad scans Jensen up and down. Jensen’s had his share of guys looking him over, but the only thing this look suggests is a sudden, painful death. “You want to use my phone.”

“Uh, yes, if—”

“I charge ten bucks a second.”

“ . . . do you have a payment plan?”

Jared’s dad laughs, his face cracking the same smile Jensen’s seen a hundred times on Jared’s face. 

“Alright, come on in. I’m Carl, and just so you know, I’m a cop so I’m armed.”

Jensen accepts the offered hand. “Jensen,” he says before he can think of a fake name. “And I’m not armed, except in a biological sense.”

Carl chuckles and Jensen thinks he’s awfully cheery for a guy who beats his wife and kids.

Jensen isn’t sure what he expected, but the house is quiet, clean. Very clean. There’s the smell of brewing coffee. Jared’s dad directs Jensen to the phone just off the kitchen. Through a doorway into the living room Jensen hears the TV playing, and gets a glimpse of two little boys, maybe ten and seven, on the couch. 

Jared’s dad is just half a dozen feet away, not watching Jensen, but very obviously aware of him. Jensen dials his own phone number, waits till the voice mail comes on, then holds a fake conversation with a fake friend. He hangs up, goes to thank Jared’s dad. 

“You got far to go?” Jared’s dad asks. 

_This guy is a cop,_ Jensen reminds himself. “Bozemen.”

“Drive safe, the roads aren’t great and we’re expecting more snow. Knocked out our power last night.”

“I will, thanks.”

Jensen feels eyes on his back all the way to his car. 

When he pulls up at the park, Jared tumbles into the passenger seat, all wide eyes and messy hair.  
“And?”

“Your dad answered the door, let me use the phone. I saw your two little brother, the youngest ones. They were watching TV.”

“Did you, like, hear anything?”

“The TV.”

“Fuck,” Jared huffs out. “What was he wearing?”

“Jeans, a t-shirt. Shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Yeah, why?”

“No, I don’t know.” Jared’s knee bounces. The energy bleeding off him is making Jensen a little jumpy himself. “We don’t usually wear shoes in the house.”

“Alright.” Jensen turns straight, looking out the windshield. “What do you want do to.”

“If he’s dressed like that, he doesn’t work today. So he might go hang out with his buddies. Probably like nine or ten. No, ten, yesterday was a holiday.”

“So we wait, check in later?”

Jared hesitates. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

They drive to a grocery store. They buy bottled water, a pile of snack food. Cigarettes and two hot coffees.

Jared doesn’t say two words the whole time.

“You okay?” Jensen asks when they’re back in the car.

The silence stretches long enough, Jensen doesn’t expect an answer. 

“I got along with him,” Jared says, “so every fucking time something happened, I’d want to take his side, make excuses for him. I blamed my mom for setting him off. He didn’t hit me till I was in high school. And then one morning I’m standing at the kitchen counter eating watery oatmeal because my teeth are loose and I can’t chew a fucking thing . . .” Jared’s words speed up, run together, die out. 

“I hate him so much. Sometimes I think it would be better if he just went ahead and killed himself.”

Jared directs Jensen back to the park. On the far side, with a view of the street, they wait. Jensen runs the engine off and on to keep the car warm. It’s a little after ten in the morning when they see the pickup truck pass, Jared’s dad behind the wheel.

At Jared’s house, they park in the empty driveway. Jensen follows Jared to the gate between the garage and house. The metal clangs when Jensen closes it behind him, and a black Labrador comes barreling around the side of the house, skidding to a stop in the deep snow, huffing out a bark.

“Shut up, Toby,” Jared says. 

The dog gives a short bark, but his tail is wagging like crazy. Jensen offers a hands, gets a sniff, and then the dog is dancing around Jared’s legs as they plow through snow to the back porch. 

There’s a pile of boots and shoes under a row of coat-loaded hooks. Jared points to the dog bed opposite the washer and dryer set against the wall. “Toby, bed.” The dog walks over and flops down with a sigh. 

The muted sounds of a TV from the ajar door. Jensen follows Jared, stepping into the kitchen.

Over the back of the couch, two pairs of green eyes are watching Jared and Jensen.

“Hey, guys,” Jared says. 

Both kids stare back. Then the older one says, “What are you doing here?”

“That’s not a very nice greeting,” Jared says, like he’s teasing, but his voice is tense, and he glances towards the stairs. “Is mom upstairs?” 

“Are you my brother?” the younger kids asks, and the older one hisses, “It’s Jared, dummy.”

The sound of someone coming down the stairs has Jensen turning. It’s a girl in her teens, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. She freezes at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes going wide when she see Jensen. Then her gaze moves on to Jared. 

“Jared?” she asks. Her voice sounds hoarse. 

“Jeremy texted me. What happened?”

“Dad was yelling,” the younger boy says. “It woke me up.” 

Jared’s sister (Summer, that’s her name) glances at Jensen. “Keith. . .” she says to her brother. 

“It’s fine, he knows. This is Jensen, by the way.”

“Okay?” Summer has her arms crossed, shoulders hunched like she’s cold. She looks from Jensen to her brother. “I think you should talk to mom.”

— 

Jared goes upstairs, leaving Jensen with the kids and Summer. The two little boys are at the table eating cereal, and while Summer empties the dishwasher, Jensen offers to make coffee. Summer darts glances at Jensen as she works, neither of them saying anything, and the kids fill the silence with chatter. 

It’s a good fifteen minutes before Jared comes back down, followed by a tall, skinny kid.   
Jensen gets introduced again. Jeremy gives Jensen a guarded look and a mumbled ‘hi’. He gets himself a bowl and pours some coco-puffs, joining the twins at the table. 

Jared catches Jensen’s eye, tilts his head towards the mudroom. 

Jared pulls the door closed behind them and turns to Jensen. His jaw is tight, his eyes too wide. 

“Are you still up for this?”

Jared’s searching Jensen’s face for something. Jensen tries to give it, says, “Yeah, I am.”

“Okay. I need to get them out of here as soon as I can. My shithead father had an episode last night, smashed up the bedroom. It woke Jeremy up, he went in to try and stop it.” Jared’s eyes dart away, like he can’t look at Jensen when he says, “My dad had a gun to my mom’s head. He said he was going to shoot her and then kill himself. Jeremy and my mom talked him down, and he went to bed. My mom says he was drinking, but he wasn’t drunk.”

Jensen watches the side of Jared’s face, the color high in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw. “Jared,” he says, and Jared’s eyes dart back up to meet his. This close, Jensen can see every detail of color, the reflection of dark lashes, Jensen’s own tiny shadow. “Just tell me what you need.”

Jared’s gives a long shuddering exhale. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

They go back into the kitchen. Jared’s mom is there, a slender woman with pale blonde hair pulled into a short ponytail. Both the little boys have left their half-finished cereal to try and crawl in their mom’s lap. She has an arm around each as they lean on her, heads pressed against her chest.

“Mom,” Jared says, “This is Jensen.”

Jared’s mom has been crying, her eyes red and swollen, her lips chapped. “Jensen,” she says. “I’m so sorry . . .” She looks on the verge of tears again. “I’m Caroline. Jared told me everything you’re doing for us. Thank you. Thank you so much.” 

She sounds deeply grateful, deeply ashamed. 

Jensen can feel Jared’s eyes on him. It’s not the time or place to speak what he really feels, so Jensen says, “You don’t need to thank me, I want to help.” 

Summer moves to her mom’s side, pulls her into a one-armed hug, hunched to accommodate her little brothers. Caroline fumbles for her daughter’s hand. She takes a deep breath. “God, I’m so scared. This doesn’t seem real.”

— 

They have a time limit: thirty minutes; there’s only so much room in the car, but anything they leave might be destroyed. Jensen hasn’t had a stationary life in years; every place he lives, he expects to leave, but watching Jared’s family try to pack up a life in sixty short minutes is unsettling.

The two little boys have Ninja Turtle backpacks. Jeremy and Summer carry down one bag each. Everything gets piled at the back door, waiting to be loaded at the last moment. 

“Jerry, get Toby on a leash,” Jared says as he passes through the kitchen. He takes the stairs two at a time. 

“Hey, are you coming with us?” 

Jensen looks down at Keith’s bright eyes, his face framed by a furry hood. 

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“Because Jared asked me to.”

“Are you Jared’s _boyfriend_?” Keith asks.

“No, just a friend.”

Jared’s feet thunder down the stairs and he strides into the kitchen carrying a cardboard box stacked with manila envelopes stuffed with paper documents.

“Guys, get your shoes on. C’mon hurry up.” Jared’s voice is sharp and clipped.   
“I’ll help them,” Jensen offers. “We’ve got this.”

Jared drops the box, heads back up the stairs without another word.

Jensen looks at the kids. “Where are your shoes?”

With Jensen helping Keith, the kids get snow boots on and coats zipped up. Jeremy appears, one moment nothing, the next moment there, leaning against the wall and watching silently.

Jensen can hear Jared’s voice before there are footsteps on the stairs. 

“ . . . doesn’t matter and we need to go, now.”

Caroline enters the kitchen, coat and shoes on, carrying a large purse. Jared’s following behind, and when Caroline sets the purse on the kitchen table and moves to the cupboard, Jared sighs out a sharp, exasperated breath. 

“Mom, what are you looking for?”

“I just need to find the red china. I think most of it’s here.”

“Jesus Christ, we don’t have time!” 

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Summer snaps. 

“Look, this is—”

“Mom, I think we should go,” Jeremy says, over the frantic clatter of Caroline shifting through plates and cups.

“I just need to find the china,” Caroline says again, her voice angry and tight. “If I leave it, it won’t . . . he’ll . . .” She stops, shoulder shaking, and in the sudden silence, Keith makes a sobbing sound. 

Jensen looks at Jared, and Jared’s staring at Caroline, eyes wide. He looks terrified, and so, so young. There’s a sharp ache in Jensen’s chest, moving up his throat, and all he wants to do is get that look off Jared’s face.

“Mommy,” Keith says. He crosses the kitchen, puts a hand on his mom’s leg, and Caroline folds, grabbing the kid into a hug. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, okay. It’s okay, baby. Let’s go.”

They almost make it. 

The kids scramble into the car after Jared’s mom and sister. They have to sit on laps for everyone to fit. Jensen shoves the last backpack into the trunk, slams the lid. Jeremy passes the dog’s leash to Jared, crawls into the cramped back seat. Jared gets in the passenger seat, taking the excited dog with him. 

Jensen drops into the driver’s seat. Key in the ignition, one glance in the mirror at silent, tense faces, the wide-eyed attention of the little boys. The engine turns over, bring the music on and blowing air from the vents, and the dog starts barking.

“Toby, you idiot,” Jared says, trying to trap the wiggling dog between his knees. 

“He doesn’t like this kind of music,” Keith says. 

Jensen’s hand is on the gear shift, as he watches Jared try to keep the dog from crawling up the window. The roar of an engine, movement in his peripheral has him turning in time for his heart to leap into his throat when a truck comes barreling up over the curb, cutting across the front yard to slide across the driveway in front of Jensen’s car. For a second Jensen thinks, _knows_ , the truck is going to slam right into them. It comes close enough that it fills the whole windscreen. Close enough that Jensen can see every detail of the shield decal on the door. _Jesus Christ._

“Drive, drive,” Jared’s screaming, and Jeremy and Summer are both yelling. The surrounding panic is smothering. Jensen throws the car into drive, spins the wheel, a half-planned intention of cutting through the narrow gap behind the truck, across the front lawn to the street.

Then Jared’s dad is around the front of the truck, and his gun is out, trained on Jensen through the windshield. 

“Shut off the engine!” The shout, muffled under he sound of the car engine and closed windows, is still loud. “Do it now!” He keeps moving in, stopping right against the bumper of the car, gun pointing at Jensen’s head. Looking past the black hole, Jensen meets Carl’s eyes. This guy will kill him, Jensen has zero doubt.

There’s a subtle shift of the gun muzzle, from Jensen’s head to chest, and Jensen knows there’s no way out, not like this. He shuts off the engine, and in the void, Jared’s string of whispered curses is loud. In the back seat, Keith is whimpering. 

“Get out of the car,” Jared’s dad says. “Show me your hands.”

“Jensen . . .” Jared says, and Jensen opens wants to apologize. He was supposed to make the plan better, but this is the absolute worst outcome. Jensen doesn’t need experience with abuse to know this. 

The morning air is cold and dry, pinching at Jensen’s skin. The truck engine is still running, a white cloud of exhaust hanging in the air. He stands slowly behind the open car door, hands half raised. 

“Step away from the car, toward the truck.”

Jensen takes one step, two, and Carl propels him the rest of the way, face-first into the side of the truck. 

“Who are you? Who the fuck are you?” The gun is against the base of Jensen’s skull, weight against his back, the choking smell of exhaust in his nose.

“Dad!” Jared yells, and the car door slams.

One of Jensen’s arms is yanked back and the pressure of the gun disappears. “You know this punk? You bring him here?” Carl says, and Jensen feels cold metal around his wrist. 

“He’s a friend. Can you not cuff him?” There’s a sharp edge to Jared’s voice that Jensen recognizes, even as Jared’s trying to sound casual.

Jensen’s other arm gets pulled back. “I’ll do more than cuff him.”

Jensen is swung around by a hold in the cuffs, shoved toward the hood of his own car. He gets a flash of Jared, mouth tense, cheeks and nose red with cold, hair blown into his face, and then Jensen’s slamming into metal, taking the impact with one shoulder and the side of his head. There goes the rest of his brain cells. When the white sparking stops, he hears Carl.

“You want me to cuff you to? Kidnaping, how about that Jared? Get the fuck away from there. Carrie, unlock the car.”

“Mom, stay in the car,” Jared says, loud. 

“I will smash this to pieces is that what you want? Okay.”

Jensen pushes back, struggling to get upright with his hands locked behind his back. Jared’s dad strides around to the driver’s side of the car, something in his hand. He hauls back and there’s a punching _crunch_ sound as the glass blows into a white fracture. From inside the car, one of the kids screams, sharp and high and the dog starts frantic barking. 

It’s a cacophony in Jensen’s head. His brain is slow and syrupy, not processing, but his fingers are fumbling around toward the phone in his pocket, like independent muscle movement. Phone, 911, help. 

The back door of the car opens, and Caroline steps out. 

“Get back in the car!” Jared yells. 

Carl is moving around the vehicle, fast. Jensen sees the tire spanner he’s griping in his right hand. For one horrible second, Jensen thinks Carl’s going to use it on Caroline, but Carl grabs her by the arm, dragging her so she stumbles away from the car.

“All of you out of the car. Get in the house, right now.” His voice is calm, low enough Jensen has trouble hearing it over the truck’s idling engine.

“Mom . . .” Jared’s voice is too high, tight with fear.

Carl hauls Caroline a few more steps toward the back gate, lets her go with a shove as he says, “Get. In. The. House,” cutting each word off.

The back door of the car slams closed, the vibration running through Jensen’s hip where he’s still leaning against it. Through the windshield he sees Summer scrambling between the front seats. The keys are still in the ignition and for a second as her hands fumble, her eyes meet Jensen’s. 

Jensen shoves away from the car, getting out of the way just as the engine roars to life. He stumbles toward Jared, Carl and Caroline. 

Summer throws the car in reverse, tires spinning on the icy driveway before they catch and the car lurches back, slams to a stop. Jensen can see Summer spinning the wheel to make the tight turn out, and then Caroline screams a word that starts as “no” and rises into noise.

Jensen only registers that Carl has his gun out again, pointed at Jensen’s car, before the sound rips through him, three shots blending into one noise. 

Jared’s moving. Jensen gets there first. His lunge knocks Jared off balance and continues into Carl. Jensen’s yelling the whole way down. 

The gun is pinned between them. That’s what Jensen was aiming for. Not bad for the brain-dead handcuffed guy. He doesn’t feel the shot so much as he hears it, ear-splitting loud even pressed against his sternum.

Jensen can’t say how much time it buys them all, not for the life of him. The death of him. Things, body parts, are a cloud of numb with lightning bolts of sensation that tell Jensen things are not at all okay. Carl rolls them, throwing Jensen off to land on his back. From his limited view, Jensen is perfectly positioned to watch Caroline swing the tire spanner at Carl’s head. 

Things start fading after that. Jensen knows he’s going under, wants to let someone know, but he’s already past speech. In the back of his mind, Jensen’s aware that the tinny voice of a 911 operator has been talking to no one for a good ninety seconds. 

—

Jensen wakes up, and instantly he knows, he finally did it. Again. 

His next thought, his next emotion, is relief. He fucked up, again. He didn’t succeed. Thank God. His mouth is dry, throat sore. He closes his mouth, tries to work up some spit. Time to prepare for his parents, who will probably be close by, waiting for . . .

Jared. 

Jared, Caroline. Summer, the kids. That annoying dog. 

He’s not in the psych ward, not strapped down, and Jensen drags one arm to the side of his bed, fumbles for a call button. The IV taped to his arm catches his attention. Slowly, he rolls his head, looking for the bag, but he already knows the feeling, the detached, warm, wavy place. _Oh fuck no_ Jensen thinks, even as he’s really, tearfully grateful. It’s like coming home.

The nurse who responds to the call button arrives just in time to stop Jensen’s weak, clumsy fingers from pulling out the IV. 

“I don’ want it,” Jensen mumbles. 

“Oh, trust me, honey, you do. It’s okay, Doctor Turner knows about your relationship with drugs, he’s keeping that in mind during your treatment.”

Jensen considers this. “Who?”

“Doctor Turner—”

“No, who?”

“Oh. I think it was the friend who came in with you, he let us know. He’s been asking to see you.”

Jensen doesn’t stay awake long enough to see Jared. But the next time is drifts to the top of the cotton cloud his brain has become, Jared is sprawled in the chair beside his bed with Keith curled up on his lap. They’re both asleep, Jared with his head tilted at an awkward angle, hair falling over his face. Each breath stirs the little curl near his lips. 

Jensen watches, for what seems like a long, long time, measuring each inhale and exhale in slow beats. 

Footsteps stop at the door, hesitate. Jensen turns his head and for a moment he has no idea who this woman is. She’s older, her hair shorter. Then she smiles and it’s Jensen’s mom, with all the conflicting emotions it brings. 

“How are you feeling?” She speaks softly, but even so her voice resonates, low and steady. 

“Drugged,” Jensen says. His voice is road-gravel rough and his throat feels like he’s contracting strep. 

“I talked to your doctor about that. He says there’s no way they can avoid giving you medication right now, but he’s aware of—”

“Mom,” Jensen croaks. 

“Yes, Jensen.”

Jensen’s having trouble keeping things straight, keeping them pinned in place. It takes a moment for him to sort through the mess of thoughts to the right one. “Caroline Dekker,” he says.

“Yes,” his mom says. “I talked to her.”

Jensen sighs out a breath, closes his eyes for a moment. There’s a lot more that needs to be asked, but Jared’s right there, safe, and for now that’s enough. 

— 

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you. And that’s weird for me. I’ve never had a problem taking advantage of people before.”

Jensen wouldn’t mind being taken advantage of, as long as Jared promised to never stop, but this is _Jared_ and Jensen understands what he’s saying: Jensen isn’t disposable. 

“S’okay,” Jensen says. “I like having you around. I’d pay you to stay around, honestly. Just talk to me, or something.” 

Jared stares at him, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks and up his neck. “You’re so fucking drugged,” he mutters, but when he turns away Jensen sees the tiny smile Jared tries to frown away. 

“So,” Jared says, staring at the wall, “your mom says we have a strong case, even with all the shit that went down. We’re all testifying. And she got the judge to refuse bail.” Jared glances at Jensen. “We probably don’t need your house in Arizona.” 

“You should come anyway,” Jensen says. His voice has improved in the past twenty-four hours. Apparently the sore throat is from intubation. The prognosis is good, though. Jensen’s doctor talks about how soon Jensen can go home, but Jensen is more interested in when he can start weaning himself off the drugs.

But maybe home is good, too. 

Jared’s watching him. He looks uncertain. Jensen just looks back, waits.

Jared’s tongue moves over his bottom lip as he exhales. “Okay. Till we can head to Canada.”

Jensen wants to ask if Jared’s “we” means Jared and his family, or Jared and him . . .

Jared slides to the edge of his chair, braces one arm on the rail of Jensen’s bed, leans in. His lashes lower, his lips part, his breath warm on Jensen’s mouth. He kisses slowly, carefully, like he’s playing music, each note in rhythm. 

Jensen listens.

EPILOGUE 

“I said I wanted roses for our first time.”

“You definitely did not. I would have written that down.”

“So you can’t, like, order up a few hundred—”

Jensen slaps Jared’s ass, lightly. Then again, because it’s a nice ass. A very nice ass. Jensen’s hand settles there, gripping, kneading. Jared’s forehead drops against Jensen’s shoulder, a shudder running through his body. 

“Okay?” Jensen asks softly. 

“All correct,” Jared says. He turns his head, lips brushing Jensen’s neck. “Everything is exactly right.”

Neither of them say anything for a while, Jensen’s hands on Jared’s hips, ass, gripping his thighs. Jared has one hand on Jensen’s head, fingers in the short hair. His other hand traces Jensen’s spine, down to his tail bone, up to his shoulders, over the scar left by a bullet exiting Jensen’s body.

They have all the time they want, all the time they need.


End file.
